


Rice and Wheat

by Syrinx



Series: Honey Wine [1]
Category: Thoroughbred
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-17
Updated: 2009-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-07 07:26:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrinx/pseuds/Syrinx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a world of second thoughts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rice and Wheat

Ashleigh is drunk. Well, more like tipsy. She’s pretty sure you can’t get drunk on three glasses of champagne, but then again she could always be proven wrong. It’s really a shame, she thinks, because she’d like to enjoy the night. It’s a beautiful night, after all. The room is all red terra-cotta arches and giant pillars; it looks like they’re in some Germanic church that’s been displaced to Louisville, Kentucky. Caroline has outdone herself; or the person she’s hired to put this all together has outdone themselves. Whatever the case, Ashleigh will be forever impressed that Caroline found roses that perfectly matched the spiced wine color of the bridesmaid dresses.

She tries to remember where she put her bouquet, but the room is a maze and the only way she can really orient herself is the location of the bar. She doesn’t dare move in that direction, mainly because that’s where she is sure to get into more trouble and she’s had enough difficulty with her three and a half inch heels for one day. So she leans against a pillar and clutches her half empty glass, hoping against hope that people will stop trying to drag her into conversation.

“One week to the Breeders’ Cup,” is a favorite opening line. “Who do you like?”

They are jokes, or honest-to-God pick up lines, depending on the person. Ashleigh replies as diplomatically as she can, but it always comes down to her horse. Wonder’s colt will win the Breeders’ Cup, but she doesn’t say that. When pressed, she just says, “Pride.” One word, easy enough. It’s what people want to hear, after all. No one asks that question of her and expects her to say Lord Ainsley.

She’s a little surprised when she hears the words out of _his _mouth.

“Who do you like?”

As if that’s a question. He approaches behind her, leans against the same pillar, just within touching distance, and asks like he’s been watching people approach her all evening with the same question on their lips. She cranes her neck around and regards him with cool civility. “Is that a question you expect me to answer seriously?”

“Why shouldn’t you?” he asks, a glint of candlelight in his eyes. It’s dim in the room, candles and soft recessed lighting sacrificing eyesight for romance. Ashleigh narrows her eyes at him and clutches a little harder at her champagne glass.

“Because it’s ridiculous?” she snaps at him. “You already know my answer.”

“So did they,” he says and she snorts a little into her champagne. So he has been watching. Typical.

“They’re trying for small talk,” Ashleigh points out. “You’re trying to be cute. Stop it.”

“Humor me, Ashleigh,” Brad says, smiling a little while she rolls her eyes.

“No.”

“Please?”

“Will you go away?”

“Have I ever gone away?”

She leans one shoulder into the cool stone of the pillar and sighs. “Fine,” she says, and licks her lips as she looks up at him. The alcohol must be roaring through her blood, she thinks, because she looks at him and hopes for a tiny second that he likes what he sees. Likes what he’ll never get. Not that he’s ever professed wanting. “Wonder’s Pride will win the Breeders’ Cup.”

He smiles and clinks his champagne glass to hers. “Good girl.”

“Shut up,” she says, drinking the last of her champagne and looking over her shoulder at the bar. It’s a longing look that he catches and deciphers easily, because before she knows it she’s got a full glass in her hand and they’re back where they started in the quiet chaos of Caroline’s wedding reception.

“I didn’t really want another glass,” she says after taking it from his proffered hand.

“You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?” he asks and she knows she’s pouting, and she really wishes she’d stop, but she doesn’t know if it’s physically possible. “It’s time for the toast,” he adds. “You always need a full glass for a toast.”

“I don’t remember that being necessary,” she says just before the dull roar of the hall grows quiet for the speakers, the second round at this point, who have only accolades and silly memories for Caroline and Justin. Afterward they cheer and glasses clink and she drinks with all the rest.

From across the room, Chad catches her eye and he nods. He’s been doing that all day, and it’s driving her crazy. It’s that passive aggressive acknowledgement of her presence, that refusal to really talk with her based on loyalty to a friend, that self-serving tilt of his chin that pisses her off to no end. She wants to scream across the room at him just to shake him up a little, and she really has no problem with Chad. None at all. She must have made a noise in her throat, because Brad winds up asking her if she’s choking.

“No,” she says, but he sees because he always does and she feels the warm weight of his hand on the bare spot between her shoulders. His fingertips graze at the nape of her neck and she stiffens and moves a step away. “I’m not choking.”

“I know,” he says. “You keep glaring daggers at Chad McGowan. What the hell did he do to you?”

“Nothing,” she shrugs. “He did nothing to me.”

“He’s not going to talk to you,” Brad says, like simply saying it will make it true.

“I know.”

“You broke up with Mike, not the other way around.”

“I know.” She grits her teeth, wills him to just shut up and go away. Go away. But he won’t because he’s right. He’s never gone away.

“He’s just being…”

“I know, okay?” Ashleigh hisses at him, turning toward him and shoving past, winding her way to the hallway, keeping her balance by some miracle as she makes for the lobby doors.

The cool night air is like a slap in the face. One she needs. Without thinking, she upends the glass and lets its contents splatter to the ground. Three deep breaths and all ready she feels better. She stands on the sidewalk, feels blissful while the autumn air combs lazily through her hair. It’s easy to forget right now the happenings of a year, of two.

Sometimes, she can trick herself into thinking that Wonder’s Pride isn’t stabled at Townsend Acres under Maddock’s watchful eyes, but at Whitebrook. Charlie would be sitting in his lawn chair outside the training barn. Just sitting, his hat tipped over his forehead. Wonder would be grazing in the paddock behind the house, the one she would have shared with Mike. She would be married to Mike, with whom she would grow old.

But that isn’t how it works. The vision stops, refuses to come to focus, the moment Charlie dies, and everything that was so easy and perfect, sweet as dreams, begins to spiral backward, collapsing on itself. Instead of getting married, Ashleigh mourns Charlie. Instead of Whitebrook Farm, there is Townsend Acres. Instead of living in a world where she knows what she wants, Ashleigh is plagued with second guesses. What if she isn’t ready for marriage? What if she isn’t ready for promises? What if she isn’t ready at all?

She takes a breath of fresh air, the alcohol burning less but still thrumming in her veins. One of the valet kids is staring at her, probably wondering how much she’s had to drink, and she feels a blush rise over her bared shoulders, hitting the chilled air and making her shiver. She goes back inside, where Brad is standing, his hands in his pockets and an unreadable look on his face.

“I’m sorry.”

She thinks this might be the only time he’s ever apologized to her, and she doesn’t want to look shocked, but she is. He smiles and shrugs.

“You didn’t say anything that wasn’t true,” Ashleigh says, walking up to him. Her shoes click on the floor. Her feet are aching, begging for some mercy when she glances at the stairs. She answers them and reaches down, slipping off her shoes. The floor is chilly on her toes and it feels fabulous. The tension sheds off at her unspoken decision not to go back.

“I’m going up to my room,” she says. It’s the room she was sharing with Caroline. Tonight it will be hers.

“I’ll walk you,” he says, like she needs an escort. She doesn’t stop him, so he tags along with her onto the elevator and they stand in silence. The hallway is quiet as a tomb. In her room, someone left the television on HBO. It’s nearly one o’clock, and she rushes to turn it off before the programming can make the fact that Brad Townsend is there with her any more awkward.

He opens his mouth, and she thinks too late.

“Do you want a glass of water?”

He just looks at her, and she looks at him, and then they burst out laughing. She nods, and goes to get ice when she finds the ice bucket filled with stale water. She pads down the hallway and returns, a smile still on her lips. They pour bottled water over ice and the liquid on her fuzzy tongue feels like heaven, but the alcohol is set in and her thoughts are foggy. Her motions are not what she’s used to, and she tells herself that she’s never doing this again. Never again, because it seems wrong to start the night thinking of her refusal to marry a man she loves and end the night with a man she can hardly tolerate.

She pours them more water and swirls the ice in her plastic cup. Their silence unnerves her, but at the same time she does not wish for him to talk. She watches his hands, wonders at the absence of the ring. There are stories, and there are rumors, and there are the truths that she’s already learned. She still feels compelled to ask.

“It must be weird for you,” she says, catching his questioning look. “I mean, to race against a horse you used to own.”

“It happens all the time,” he answers. “It’s not that weird for those of us who sell horses.”

“You didn’t sell Lord Ainsley.”

“No, I didn’t,” Brad agrees. “Lavinia wanted him.”

“So you just gave him up?”

“Did you have a better idea at the time that you neglected to tell me?”

“Didn’t you sign a prenup?” she asks, grasping at an attempt to understand.

“Of course I did,” Brad says, like she’s offended him. “The horse was a gift, Ashleigh. She wanted him back, so I gave him back. In return, the shit storm she kicked up was smaller than it could have been. In the long run, it worked out.”

“You have Pride,” she says, nodding.

“I always had Pride,” he points out.

“Lord Ainsley is a good horse,” she says. “You’ll miss him.”

“Pride is better,” he shrugs. She marvels at him, at the words that come out of his mouth. He notices.

“What?”

“Just the things you say.”

“What things?”

“You never would have said that in January,” Ashleigh says. “You would have eaten dirt first.”

“The situation changed.”

“How?” Ashleigh asks with a laugh. “Pride has always beaten Lord Ainsley. Each and every time. The only thing that’s changed is Lavinia, but up until the end you never would have said what you just did.”

He looks at her like he expects more. “It’s not exactly precognitive thought, Ashleigh.”

That does a remarkable job of shutting her up. She sits on the bed closest to the windows and looks up at him. “Okay. Point made.”

“It’s not about making points,” Brad sighs, sitting down next to her. “He was my horse, and I supported that horse. He’s not mine anymore.”

“Pride was always yours,” she says.

“And notice how I always wanted to see him in the winner’s circle.”

“Right down to screaming at me in public,” she says, feigning a swoon with her head tipped back as she looks at him. “So supportive.”

He smiles, looking down at the bed and then at her neck. That feeling, the alcohol rushing in blood feeling, flows hard and fast. “That was an emotional day.”

“No kidding.”

“I was out of line,” Brad said, “but I was right. You were nearly suspended.”

“I think the key word there is _nearly_,” she smiles.

“Thanks to Charlie, Maddock, my father, and me,” Brad reminds her. “We need you on horses more than on the ground.”

“Is that an admission of needing my help?” she asks.

“Do you need that?” he asks in return, narrowing his eyes at her. She hesitates, caught between answers. Yes, it would be nice. No, she doesn’t need it. She needs to be wanted, and lately she’s wanted by no one.

“I hope not,” she breathes, a truthful answer that answers nothing. He just looks at her, all dark eyes and careful expression, and there is a rolling heat within her that makes her want him to reach across the divide. She knows it’s the alcohol. It’s singing and surging and making her want absurd, foolish, completely inappropriate things. Like right now? Right now she wants to feel his hands. There is no particular reason for this, other than it is a simple want that could be so easy to fix.

The effort to breathe is becoming a little too hard. She’s taking in air, but it never feels like enough, and then everything comes to a shuddering pause when he lifts his hand and places it on her bare shoulder, up her neck. He seems very focused on her collarbone. She is so still, and she feels her skin underneath his and it is burning.

“Ashleigh,” he says, closer than before. Did she see him move? She’s focusing on breathing and staying upright. Her fingers are digging into the bed, her body turned toward him, while arguments for why she shouldn’t want this are steadily drowned out.

“Yes?” she asks, licking her lips again. The aching is everywhere, under her skin, down her spine, revving up so much adrenaline she can’t imagine how she’s sitting so still.

“You’re drunk,” he tells her, and she’s mildly insulted enough to jerk her head up. His hand slips off her shoulder and settles on the bed between them. She looks at it and then straight up into his eyes.

“Tipsy,” she argues.

“That’s the same thing,” he says, standing up. “You’ll agree with me tomorrow.”

“I will not,” she tells him bluntly, standing up and feeling a rush of wooziness that she fights off. He just laughs, like he’s heard that before and won’t be drawn in again. She suddenly feels both very young and very immature, which seems ludicrous to her because she was supposed to be married now.

“Ash,” he says, stopping by the door, “where is this coming from?”

She has no answer. She can’t even grapple for one, and she’s not surprised when he looks satisfied in his assessment. She’s drunk, and he is right. He’s always right, and she’s so tired of it.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Ashleigh,” he tells her. “Get some sleep, okay?”

So that’s how it happens, she thinks while he lets himself out. The door clicks shut and locks by itself. This is what rejection looks like, and this is what it feels like afterward. Angry with herself, with him, she grabs the key card from the wardrobe and marches out the door. She plows down the hallway and stops at his door, rapping her knuckles against the wood quietly until he shows up in front of her.

“Ashleigh,” he says, looking resigned, like he knows he’s going to wind up leading her back to her room. She can’t say anything, angrier now that he is giving her that look than anything else. What she wants to tell him slips away. The words flew through her on the way to his door, and now they were missing, leaving her to focus only on finishing what he wasn’t willing to start.

“No,” she interrupts him, makes him rock back on his heels. “Just…no,” she mutters, stepping to him and reaching across, pulling him down as she rises up. She kisses him, and is thrilled with herself more than anything, in the doorway. When his hands skim up her sides, brushing up her ribcage to hold her while he lets her in and kisses her back, she is triumphant. As soon as he starts to pull her inside the room she pushes against him. It’s a firm shove, both hands slip down from his shoulders to press against his chest. She smiles at the look of utter shock on his face.

“I’ll see my way back,” she says, holding down a laugh while she dances just out of his reach and into the hallway. She scurries back to her room, full of tingles and light. There is no thought of tomorrow, and for now that is enough.


End file.
